


The Flying Dutchman

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John, M/M, New Relationship, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 13:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10023761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: John learns a lesson from an old man.It changes two lives.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This title gave me pause, but in the end I am happy with what emerged. I hope you like it.   
> BTW, can you catch the nod to one of my favourite childhood tales?

The elderly heart patient was in the very last curtained cubicle on the ward. His bed was just slightly angled so that he could see a patch of the sky through the window. On the first day that John came to see him, the ward sister explained in a whisper that he liked to see the aeroplanes that sometimes flew high above the hospital on their way to Heathrow; he kept a small pair of pearled opera glasses handy for the purpose.

When John arrived, the man was half-asleep, mumbling to himself in some foreign language. “Dutch,” the ward sister told him. Then she reached out and touched the patient’s shoulder lightly. “Mr Brinker,” she said quietly. “Doctor is here to see you.”

It took a moment, but then two pale blue and slightly fogged eyes were peering up at John.

“Good morning,” John said, trying to strike the right balance between cheerful and professional. “I am Dr Watson. How are you feeling today?”

When the man replied, it was in heavily accented English. “I feel like a ninety-nine year old man who is watching the Horseman approach.”

It took a moment for John to catch the allusion, but then he smiled, taking a quick glance at the electronic chart of one Brinker, Hans. “Well,” he said then, “I think you will keep him waiting for a bit yet.”

Brinker chuckled, a rusty, broken sound. “That rather depends on you, doesn’t it, Doctor?”

The rest of their talk and a quick but thorough exam went well, so John left the ward in a positive mood. Well, as positive as one could be about a man pushing one hundred who had a bad ticker.

 

A week had passed now since that first meeting and John had visited the Dutchman every time he was working in the hospital, even when he was not scheduled to do so. He enjoyed the wide-ranging conversations they had, especially when they fell to comparing their experiences at war. Brinker had been a pilot in the Luchtvaartbrigade [Army Aviation Brigade] in his native Netherlands and had been one of the lucky ones to escape to England and carry on fighting. When the war ended, he decided to remain, having become engaged to an English woman he later married.

He was quite interested in hearing about John’s service in Afghanistan, so the time they spent together passed quickly.

The old man was dying, but he was so sanguine about that fact it meant they could converse more like friends than doctor and patient.

After one of the orderlies filled Brinker in on John’s other life as a consulting detective’s blogger, the old man demanded endless stories about their adventures.

Not that he believed everything John told him and he frequently accused the doctor of making up some of the most outrageous tales. His scepticism only prompted John to recount even more of the most ridiculous of their adventures.

One afternoon when it was already past the time for John to be heading home, Brinker eyed him over a cup of hospital tea. “Not so eager to be getting back to Baker Street today?” he murmured slyly.

John lowered his own tea and grimaced. “Toenails,” he said bitterly. “He’s got freaking toenails all over the table.”

Brinker gave a soft laugh. “What on earth is the man doing with toenails?”

“Well you might ask. I certainly did.”

“And his response?”

John shrugged. “The usual. ‘Oh, John, you are too much of an idiot to understand.’ And then he tells me not to be offended.” John gave a rueful shake of his head. “The sad part is, I’m never really offended at all.” He sighed. “Sometimes, Hans, I really wonder why I bother.”

On occasion, as with this very moment, the old man’s gaze was sharper than expected. “Do you, John?” The tone behind his words was familiar to John; every third person in London had at one time or another used that very same tone when talking about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Not to mention numerous citizens of Devon, Sussex, and Edinburgh.

John wondered just when he had stop objecting to their assumptions?

Which did not imply that he was prepared to discuss it. And not simply because there was little he could say that wouldn’t be more than a bit incriminating.

So there was an awkward pause, before John stood. “Best be on my way,” he said briskly. “I have an all-day seminar tomorrow,” he added. “So I will see you on Thursday.”

Brinker gave a nod. Oddly, John thought he looked vaguely disappointed.

 

As soon as John walked onto the ward on Thursday, he sensed a different atmosphere and when he reached Brinker’s cubicle, he saw why. Hans was only slightly raised in the bed, more to aid with his breathing than so he could survey the room. His colour was pale and just a little grey 

Still, he opened his eyes at John’s approach.

“Hello,” John said quietly. “Looks as if you are not feeling very chipper today.”

Hans huffed a bit. “The Horseman is tired of waiting, I think.” His voice had gone a bit wispy.

John made a cursory examination of his patient and ordered a slight increase in one of his meds; it would only ease the pain a little, but that was really all he could do at the moment.

“Sit, sit,” Brinker said. “If you have a little time.”

“Of course I do.” John moved his usual chair closer to the bed. He wanted to carry on as usual, because Hans was. Settled, he smiled at the man in the bed. “Would you like to hear about The Case of the Aluminium Crutch? Quite a tale.”

Hans coughed a bit. “My turn,” he said. “I have a story for you.”

John had to bend a little closer to hear. “Well, don’t wear yourself out.” Which they both recognised was a ridiculous thing to say, so Hans ignored it.

“Unless your Sherlock needs you at the moment?”

John smiled a little and shook his head. “Not ‘my’ Sherlock.”

“An oversight on your part.”

“Well,” John said.

Hans was staring out the window, although there were no aeroplanes visible through the low-hanging clouds. “My wife, Margery, was a wonderful, kind woman,” he said. “We spent thirty years together.”

John only nodded, although Hans was not looking at him.

The man gestured towards the water glass on the bedside table. John lifted it for him, held it while he drank, moistening his lips. “But she knew, she always knew, that my one true love was someone else.”

John was aware that the dying oftentimes felt the need to confess; it was something he had seen more than once with the soldiers he had lost. Sometimes a doctor stood in for a priest. So John just stayed silent.

Once the glass was back on the table, Hans took up his tale again; his voice was a little stronger after the water. “His name was Peter. He was a pilot in the RAF.” Now Hans was back to staring out the window. “We knew. Almost from the moment we met, both of us knew. But the times…and the war. Everyone around us thought we were great chums. And we were. But it was so much more than that.”

There was such a long pause than John thought Brinker had drifted into sleep.

But then there was a sigh, light as a leaf floating towards the ground. “We only talked about it once. Very late one night and there had been a bit of lager flowing. Peter and I were sitting on a small hill overlooking the base.” He stopped again, blinking.

“Hans,” John said gently, not really sure what he was meant to say.

But the increasingly foggy gaze flickered towards him and then back to the sky, so John kept quiet.

“Such plans we made. The foolish dreams of young men, of course. But it made us happy to sit in the grass, daring to hold hands, and pretending that there was a future for us.” One of the pale, blue-veined hands moved slightly on the top of the blanket, forming a loose fist. “There were others nearby, so we were afraid to kiss. We never even kissed and I have regretted that every day of my life since.”

“I’m sorry” John said. Useless words, of course, but well meant.

Now Hans gaze fixed on John. “Do not die regretting your life, John.”

“I…I won’t.”  
“I am afraid you will. Two days after our night on the hill, Peter’s plane went down in the Channel.”

“But Sherlock and I…we’re not… he doesn’t…”

“Bah, John, don’t be the idiot he says you are. Even a half-blind old man on his deathbed can see the truth.” Hans, clearly exhausted, rested back against the pillow and closed his eyes.

John just sat there for a moment, before a slight noise behind him, made him turn. “Sherlock?” he said in surprise.

With a glance at the bed, Sherlock stepped closer and spoke in a whisper. “I know, you hate it when I bother you at the hospital, but I promised you I wouldn’t go after the Kensington Poisoner on my own. He is planning to kill the girl tonight.”

Before John could reply, Hans spoke. “So this is the famous Sherlock Holmes,” he said softly.

“It is,” John said. “Sherlock, this is Hans Brinker. A war hero and a good man.”

Sherlock edged nearer the bed and touched Brinker’s hand fleetingly. “John Watson does not use those words lightly,” he said. “So I am pleased to meet you.”

“As I am you.”

Sherlock stepped back and John bent over the bed. “I have to go now,” he said.

“Of course.”

John looked into the fading eyes. “Thank you, Hans,” he said.

“Keep him safe, John.”

“I will,” John promised.

Then he turned and followed Sherlock from the ward.

 

Hours later, the Kensington Poisoner was in custody and the text had come for John from the hospital. He and Sherlock were sitting on the roof at 221, watching the sky now that the clouds had vanished. Far above them, they could watch the planes leaving Heathrow.

Finally, John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand in his. Sherlock looked startled, but he didn’t pull away. “I think we need to talk,” John said.

“And not before time,” Sherlock said in a snarky tone. But he was giving John a soft smile at the same time.

Something in that smile made John decide that there was one further thing he had to do before the conversation really began. He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock. “No regrets,” he whispered against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock sighed in agreement.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: The Flying Dutchman by Anthony Fokker


End file.
